


These Lies are Mine

by dawnsshadow (ptolemy)



Series: Chain [2]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!, Yu-Gi-Oh! Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chain-adjacent, M/M, Sexy Times, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 09:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5242982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ptolemy/pseuds/dawnsshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bakura knows what he saw. He knows what his teacher wants. He knows a few too many things.<br/>[Standalone, but takes place in the the past of the Chain universe/timeline.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Lies are Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sierra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sierra/gifts).



There was a burst of magic—a small spark, quickly snuffed out—and Mahaado was awake. He sat up quickly and reached for the lamp beside his bed, which lit when he rested his hand on it. Dim light cast over his spare bedroom and the silhouette of a figure curled in the window frame.

“You have to be better if you’re expecting to sneak up on me,” Mahaado said, his voice rough with sleep even though his senses were on high alert after being woken so abruptly.

“Who said I was sneaking? You’re lucky I wasn’t a madman with a knife.” The figure swung his legs into the room and climbed down. He was wearing the same simple tunic all scribes wore, but he filled it better than most—tall and wiry, with taut muscles and a shit-eating grin even at this hour.

“What do you want, Bakura?” Mahaado sighed, leaning back on one hand as he used the other to set aside the lamp. There was no flame inside it; the magic to summon a spiritual fire was so easy, it was almost instinctive, barely an itch in the back of his mind.

Bakura walked towards the bed while pretending to admire the room around him. “Even priests don’t get wall decorations, huh, teacher?”

“Bakura…”

“Shame to be sleeping on such a fine night, don’t you think?” Bakura feigned admiration for the sky outside the window, taking an exaggerated breath. “Feel that clear night air on your scalp.” He rubbed his head, shaved recently, but not recently enough—a fine fuzz of white hair was starting to show through.

“ _Bakura_.”

“Ahh,” Bakura ignored Mahaado, eyes on his shoulder-length hair. “That’s right, you don’t have to join us lowly scribes in that privilege anymore. Would you like me to describe it for you?”

“Why are you _here_?” Mahaado said firmly. “I don’t particularly care about you sneaking around—that’s for the guards to deal with after sundown—but if you keep me from my rest, my aim may not be as precise in class, if you catch my meaning.”

“You’re going to shoot a fireball at me?” Bakura laughed.

Mahaado sighed. It was clear he wasn’t going to be able to do this from the bed. He got up, grateful he’d worn a waist-skirt tonight, and started to push Bakura back towards the window. “No, I’m going to summon a _monster_ that will shoot a fireball at you. Why do you even come to class if you aren’t going to grasp the basics?”

Bakura let himself be pushed with surprisingly little resistance, but his grin hadn’t faded. “You mean the way Rishid has?”

Mahaado hesitated, then said, “Rishid works hard—“

“Rishid has _grasped_ something, certainly, but maybe more than just the _basics_.” Bakura resisted him now, turning back and grinning up at him. It was the kind of grin that very quickly unraveled any kind of authority Mahaado may have wielded over his student. “The stables are an odd place to have lessons, _teacher_ ,” Bakura added, slowly, emphatically.

Mahaado closed his mouth and exhaled through his nose, staring down at Bakura. He tried his luck. “Nothing happened.”

“Oh, teacher,” Bakura cooed, “Something _happened_.”

Bakura moved forward suddenly, grasping at Mahaado’s chest, affecting a quavering pitch to his voice as he said, “I greatly a-a-admire your strength, and how you s-s-serve the Pharaoh, and I wish to be as great as you someday—and if I can s-s-serve—“ He broke off, laughing, coiling his arms around Mahaado’s neck. “I always thought he was a stoic piece of nothing, but it seems he was hiding quite a _crush_.”

“Why were you even there? Why weren’t you in class?” Mahaado snapped back, trying to pull away from Bakura’s hold.

“Poor Rishid wasn’t the only one with chores—only he seemed to forget all about me when you turned up,” Bakura purred, coiling tighter, pressing their bodies together. “If only he knew.”

“Bakura,” Mahaado began, his voice tense. Guilt had been gnawing at him all evening. The sight of one of his students, tongue-tied with unexpressed awe, begging, begging for what? For attention? For Mahaado, for a priest of the Pharaoh, to see him, to treat him as _special_ —

“And then he fell to his knees,” Bakura whispered, and Mahaado realized he was being led, turned, pushed lightly against the wall beside the window, as Bakura lowered himself down to one knee before him. “And begged to _serve_.” Nothing but a waist-skirt separated Mahaado from Bakura’s hands, from his mouth—he could feel warm breath and he shuddered hard.

“Not tonight,” he said, but his voice wavered. Bakura was eight years Mahaado’s junior, but nothing stopped him when he had that look on his face. And Mahaado hadn’t been able to turn him aside yet.

“I couldn’t see very well. Did he do this?” Bakura asked. He reached a hand under Mahaado’s waist-skirt, cupping him, running up the length of him, and he was rewarded with a pulse and Mahaado’s short, hitched breathing.

“Nothing—he, we, did _nothing_ ,” Mahaado whispered harshly. Because Rishid was his student, just as Bakura was. Because Mahaado could not, _could not_ —

“Good,” Bakura said. “I don’t like sharing.” Bakura yanked Mahaado’s waist-skirt up, bunched around his hips, and the cold outside air hit Mahaado’s stirring cock moments before Bakura’s mouth did.

“A-ah,” Mahaado gasped, leaning into the wall as his knees threatened to give way. Bakura’s tongue was skilled ( _practiced_ , added the more bitter voice in his head) coiling around the length of him, running under the tip and teasing just there—

Mahaado gave a soft sound, a whine in the back of his throat, and was rewarded with a warning look, a light pinch to his leg before Bakura’s hands wrapped around and grabbed Mahaado’s ass, pulling him in, taking him deeper. Quiet, the warning said, they had to be quiet. As Bakura _sucked_ until his cheeks turned in, bobbing his head with every sound of mouth and spit ringing loudly around the room, Mahaado bit down on his fist to keep his own moans down. The lantern’s magic, which had put up admirably in the face of many distractions, finally flickered and went out.

And then, when Mahaado was tense and quivering like a drawn bow, Bakura pulled away with a gratuitous little smacking noise and grinned up at him in the dark.

The fireball was extremely tempting.

Bakura rose and brusquely turned Mahaado around to face the wall, unwinding the fabric belt from his tunic as he did so.

“If only he knew what you really wanted,” Bakura murmured into Mahaado’s ear as he took the belt and pulled it across Mahaado’s eyes, tying it firmly in the back. Mahaado, unresisting, braced his hands against the wall and tried to resist the urge to arch his back and press into the hips now resting against his ass. Tried to pretend this was normal, or even mundane.

“You don’t want to be bowed and scraped to,” Bakura continued. There was a sound like a jar being opened, then Bakura yanked Mahaado’s waist-skirt higher up in the back. “You want to worship—you want to bow and kneel,” a wet noise, followed by two cold, slick, and probing fingers, “I brought something to make it easier this time.”

Mahaado turned his head and sank his teeth into his forearm. He didn’t want it to be easier. He wanted it to hurt, to shame him, to remind him even days after, in class, in front of his Pharaoh, that what he did was wrong and unrepeatable. Not again. Not again. But then those probing fingers spread and stroked—they found what they were looking for so _quickly_ —and then Mahaado had to bite harder to keep from begging for more.

Bakura worked for a few moments in silence, broken by the soft, wet sounds and Mahaado’s muffled groans, before his fingers withdrew. Another rustle, another slick sound, and then the unbearable _push_ —

Bakura stopped short, mouth at Mahaado’s ear. “Call my name,” he whispered, so softly that Mahaado could pretend. He disengaged his teeth, clawing the wall.

“King,” he moaned. “King—my king— _please_.“

A small pause that reeked of victory, and then Bakura thrust his hips in and started to move. The silence was broken. Mahaado moaned and whimpered freely, and even Bakura breathed hard, grunted, gasped.

“Tight,” he elaborated before sinking his teeth into Mahaado’s shoulder, and Mahaado reveled in it. Let it hurt, he prayed. Please, gods.

They moved into a jerky rhythm with each other, pushing and adapting. Bakura gripped Mahaado’s hip with one hand while the other rested over Mahaado’s hand against the wall, nesting their fingers, mocking (or perhaps humoring) Mahaado’s fantasy that Bakura was someone else who might hold his hand.

“My king,” Mahaado gasped again, reminding himself, then shaming himself.

“Mine,” the voice in his ear replied, and Mahaado shuddered with giddy pleasure. He moved the hand that was resting over his down to his cock and left it there. Normally he wouldn’t make requests, but the reasonable scrap of his mind suggested he would be forgotten otherwise. Bakura had started to move quicker, deeper, and the impatience of youth—

But then that hand was stroking him hard, the other coming up to bury and wrap in his long hair, pulling it back, exposing his neck. Unspoken, this time: mine.

Gods, he loved it.

Bakura came first, hips jerking forward with a long, shaking moan. He stilled for a moment, leaning into Mahaado’s back, and when Mahaado made a sound—half moan, half-throat-clearing—he could almost feel Bakura grinning. The hand around Mahaado jerked back to life, pulling and stroking, while the other slid from Mahaado’s hair to around his throat. He rested it there, just stroking the skin with the pads of his fingers, almost contemplating—and Mahaado, pathetic, shameful Mahaado came hard the moment they started to squeeze.

Mahaado gasped loudly and slumped forward, immediately wrenching himself away from Bakura, who slipped out of him with an anticlimactic, slippery sensation. The hands around him vanished, and as Mahaado removed the blindfold, he saw Bakura—sweating, redfaced, his tunic still hanging open and inviting—and already his attention seemed to be elsewhere.

Mahaado held out the belt and pulled down his waist-skirt one-handed, looking away, wanting anything but to bask in the afterglow. Bakura looked at the belt, then at Mahaado, and seemed to refocus on him again. He grinned.

“Thanks, teacher,” he said, taking the belt and redoing his tunic.

“Don’t,” Mahaado mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Just go.”

Mahaado turned away as Bakura moved towards the window, so he didn’t see Bakura’s hand come around behind him and coil around his neck again, firm as an adder’s hold. Again, a pause—a moment of contemplation.

“Maybe someday,” Bakura whispered against his shoulder. The hand retreated, and when Mahaado turned back, Bakura was a dark silhouette in the window-frame again. He swung out and was gone.


End file.
